


Vroom Vroom

by heddychaa



Category: Top Gear - Fandom, Torchwood
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-26
Updated: 2010-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:37:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heddychaa/pseuds/heddychaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one with. . . late night telly and a four-speed pocket rocket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vroom Vroom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cruentum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruentum/gifts).



> As a part of the fic request meme. Cheeky thing wanted Jack/Ianto with a vibrator and the phrase "Watching the telly, Jackass". azn_jack_fiend gave it a quick and dirty beta. Can you tell my husband watches way too damn much BBC Canada?

Ianto has long since accepted the fact that there's just something irresistible to him about arrogant men who talk too much. That's why, even though he doesn't care for cars, he can never pass Top Gear by during his late-night channel surfing sessions. Even when it's a three-year-old rerun. Even though he doesn't like cars. It's Jeremy Clarkson, he reasons. It has to be. His smug, affable narration. The casual, self-assured way he insults everyone he talks to, and does it with that cheeky fucking smile.

So that's how it comes to be a bit past midnight and Ianto finds himself lying belly-down on the couch in his flat, half-drunk and peering at the television through an artful arrangement of empties on the coffee table, blue light through brown bottles. He watches Jeremy Clarkson run his hands all over the bonnet of a gleaming green Jaguar, watches Jeremy Clarkson's hand gripping the shiny _shiny_ gearstick, the camera zooming in on his movements luxuriously. All the while, he's saying things like "attention to detail" and "naught to seventy" and "handling", and the camera is panning over the green Jaguar slicing across the track, the speedometer climbing, Jeremy Clarkson's hands on the steering wheel, the breeze in the Jaguar's wake that nudges the nettles that grow at the track's edge. And Ianto finds himself just listening to the sound of Jeremy Clarkson's smug poncy English voice, palming at the lazy half-erection squished into the couch cushions. Okay, one of the weirder wanks he's had, but definitely not the _weirdest_.

He chooses to ignore the sound of the deadbolt on the front door of his flat clicking open, the sound of boots trumping in his front hall. He focuses, instead, on the sound of Jeremy Clarkson talking about how the Jaguar corners, how it compares to the similarly-priced German offering, how he likes the sat-nav but can't stand the cheap look of the interior, and gropes a bit clumsily along the firm shape of his cock through the cotton of his boxers. He bites his lip, savouring the frustration of having cock and wrist pinned under his body. He turns his face so that a little groan is smothered into the cushions. When he comes back up for air, the smell hits him: sea air and Weevil blood, and then that superhuman musk underneath it all.

Thank God he's on his stomach. It's not like Jack hasn't watched him getting himself off before, but there are just some things Ianto likes to keep to himself. Father not really a master tailor. Turned on by Top Gear.

Jack hasn't said anything by way of greeting, but Ianto knows he's there, can sense him like a shadow looming overhead. He refuses to acknowledge him. Instead, he resolutely watches the television, which has gone to commercial, that supernaturally friendly man with the big glasses singing for Halifax. He wonders if Jack would notice if he just, maybe --

That's when he hears the buzzing, quiet but insistent, in the black space between commercials. Feels the cool narrow tip of the vibrator, soft silicone, making its quivering way up the length of his leg from the sensitive back of his knee all the way up to trace the fold where his arse meets his thigh. He grunts, throwing a glare over his shoulder. In the light of the television, he can see Jack's teeth. He's leaning over the end of the couch, elbows on the armrest.

" _Trying_ to watch the telly, jackass," Ianto snarls up at him, because apparently he's a mean drunk tonight, and turns back to the screen where Jeremy Clarkson is on the couch across from those other two, throwing pithy insults around. He feels a hot blush hit his face, looking at Jeremy Clarkson, hearing his voice, and the irrational paranoia hits him that Jack must _know_ , somehow. He must know.

Jack's answer is a low laugh. "Really," he drawls, clearly unconvinced, and draws the vibrator up between Ianto's arsecheeks, not pressing firmly enough to part them. Ianto shudders, and isn't sure whether it's a gesture of revulsion or pleasure or embarrassment or fear or ticklishness or all five together. There's the hum of the vibrator, louder and louder and louder all the time, even though the intensity of it hasn't increased as Jack runs it lazily over his skin. Jeremy Clarkson is insulting the boxy shape of some American SUV.

"Like a hearse," Jeremy Clarkson says. The button on Ianto's boxers is like a pressure point, his cock straining against it.

"Your eyes were closed," Jack accuses. The vibrator is lifted away, leaving a phantom tingle on one of the dimples of Ianto's lower back. Behind his back, he hears fabric as Jack shifts, and then the television's turned on mute.

"Now this," Jack lectures, and Ianto realizes with horror that he's doing some approximation of Jeremy Clarkson's haughty accent, "is a German model. Clean lines. Efficient. Shapely."

Ianto is on his side before he's even finished the first sentence. Glowering. Jack is looking at the erection tenting his boxers with an appraising smirk, but Ianto is pretending he doesn't notice, choosing instead to frown very deeply.

"Jack." He can barely say the word. His voice is almost shaking. Arousal? No, annoyance.

"Unlike porous, barbaric plastic," Jack continues, paying him no mind, "this little number is made of luxurious high-tech silicone, soft to the touch and hygienic."

"Jack," Ianto says again. Jack has walked around to the side of the couch and is now leaning over him, gliding the soft, almost fabric-like surface of the vibrator over his lower lip. Ianto clamps his mouth shut in protest, glaring harder. The whirr of it sinks down through his teeth, down into his jawbone. His cock twitches, fuck it.

"And although the purple isn't exactly _manly_ \--" Jack says, running the length of it up and over Ianto's cheeks like John Hart had done with the barrel of his gun. The way he emphasizes the word 'manly' is so Clarkson Ianto can barely stand it. If it weren't for the context, he'd probably be doubled over laughing right now. Instead, he feels himself tilting his chin up, exposing his neck, wetting his lips with a nervous dart of his tongue. "--the four speed settings, including an alternating and escalating pulsation, absolutely are."

He feels Jack's free hand gliding over the outside of his boxers, the butt of his palm rubbing over Ianto's erection forcefully. That fucking button! Ianto reaches down, tugging at the elastic with his thumb, freeing himself. He hears a little breathy laugh from Jack, and then shivers when the tip of the vibrator makes the barest contact with the head of his cock.

"Fuck," he snarls.

"And as for safety features," Jack purrs into his ear, teeth touching his earlobe, "the Germans really _have_ thought of everything, because as you can see the end of this piece flares out into a slightly wider base, making it safe for anal insertion." The vibrator glances over the surface of his balls, down between his legs. He bucks his hips, whimpering mindlessly.

"Jack," Ianto grits through his teeth as the vibrator amps up a couple speeds, and Jack is sliding it up behind his balls, up between his arsecheeks, teasing it over his hole. He lifts his hips to give Jack easier access, up on his feet and elbows on the couch like he's doing the crabwalk. Jack puts his free hand on Ianto's chest as though to hold him still, and glides it down from his chest, over the twitching muscles of Ianto's stomach. Like he's being electrocuted. He pants hard, feels his eyes involuntarily scrunching shut.

"And it goes from naught to a hundred," Jack narrates, and wraps his hand around Ianto's cock, "In a very respectable three minutes."

And Ianto comes right on cue, cock throbbing in Jack's grip. He feels the warm streak dapple the skin of his belly.

\--

When he regains mental faculties, Jack is sitting on the end of the couch, rubbing Ianto's feet on his lap in cheerful little circles and Jeremy Clarkson is telling the star in their reasonably priced car that they failed to beat Gordon Ramsay's infamous time. The audience laughs seemingly spontaneously and Jeremy calls them all juvenile, at which they all laugh harder.

"You know what you are," Jeremy Clarkson announces, turning to the camera like he's figured out the riddle of the universe and it isn't '42'. "Half of you are stupid, and the other half are masochists."


End file.
